


AKA Coma Girl

by prinkes



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Canonical Child Abuse, Drug Addiction, F/F, F/M, High School, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-10-19 11:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10638585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prinkes/pseuds/prinkes
Summary: The high school AU no one asked for.It's been nearly a year since the accident that took her family. Now, after being in a coma for five months, Jessica Jones returns to the joys of high school. It's the same old hallways, but everything is different. For starters, she now lives with teen starlet, Trish Walker, and her dangerous nutjob of a mother. And then there are the two new kids -- Natasha and Clint, transfer students from an elite government academy.Armed with sarcasm, Sunny-D, and newfound superstrength, Jessica navigates a whole new life. There's drama, drugs, and teenage heartbreak. The usual. Plus some superpowers.





	1. AKA High School Blows

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated wholly to Alicia & Danica, my writing heroes <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica Jones returns to her old school and meets some new faces.

It’s the same old hallways, but everything feels different. My first day back. 

Patsy – _Trish_ , Christ that takes some getting used to – is standing next to me. Her goddamn _driver_ dropped us off, which is a blessing, actually. She’s texting somebody, probably some other child-star, or maybe that doctor who hooks her up with those pills she doesn’t think I know about, and just when I’m starting to think she’s forgotten I’m there, she pockets the phone and turns to me.

“I’m supposed to take you to the office first,” she says, running a hand through the sheet of long blonde hair around her shoulders. 

“Pretty sure I remember where it is,” I reply, pointing at it. “I didn’t hit my head that hard.” It’s literally ten feet ahead of us, I can see the secretary trying to look like she _isn’t_ staring at the two of us. She’s not subtle, and neither is anybody else. But for once, it’s not Trish the onlookers are ogling at. It’s me. 

_Coma girl_. Trish says that’s what they’re calling me now. Apparently, I’ve been the talk of the school. Which was the point, I guess. No one’s even batting an eyelash over Trish’s little Tablecloth Incident anymore. They’re too busy wondering just how _fucked up_ I am, after a car accident and five months dead to the world. 

Trish doesn’t balk under the weight of everyone’s gaze. She just pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head, adjusts her flowy fashionable scarf (gotta keep those bruises covered), and links her arm with mine. “I know,” she says. “But I’m still going with you. Deal with it.” Her voice leaves little room for argument.

“You know, I could throw you across the hall.” (I still have to try.)

“You could,” Trish replies, tugging me forward, straight into the lion’s den. People move out of her way before she even reaches them, she has that effect on crowds. She leans in to whisper in my ear. “That’d really give them something to talk about.” 

She even flashes me a smile. A real one. It’s weird to think how much I used to hate her. Before I knew her, I just saw her as this spoiled little starlet, and she still can be a total bitch when she wants to, but ever since I tossed _Ms. Walker_ into the hallway, things have changed. She’s my first real friend. 

So I just sigh heavily, and let her drag me into the office. The secretary beams at us both, pretends to be shocked to see us, then gives me my new schedule.

“And remember, if you need anything,” the woman says, reaching forward and placing her bony hands over mine. “We’re here to help, Jessica.”

I pull away like her icy cold hands burn. “Pass,” I scoff. 

Trish shakes her head, flashes that fake, for the cameras smile. “What she means is _thanks_ , Ms. Goodman,” she says, shooting me a look. “We’ll let you know how it goes.” She tugs on my sleeve, and we head back into the hallway just as the first bell rings. 

“Shit,” she mutters, hurrying towards the science wing. “Mr. Porter will kill me if I’m late again. You good?” she calls, looking back at me over her shoulder. 

I nod, wave her on. “Just offer him an autograph!” I yell back. Her laugh echoes back to me through the nearly-empty hallway.

I look down at the print-out Ms. Goodman gave me. History first period. I remember Mr. Schubmel’s bald head and constant throbbing forehead vein, and decide to cash in on my current situation. Can’t give detention to _Coma Girl_ , right? 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I decide to spend the next forty-five minutes not staring at the throbbing forehead vein of doom, and instead head out behind the cafeteria. I could go to the quad, but it’d probably be full of seniors on their free period, and they live to torment freshmen. (Repeating a year sucks _ass_ by the way, especially when it’s not even my goddamn fault.)

It doesn’t smell great out here, even this early, the dumpsters stink to high heaven. But at least I’ll be alone. After five months with nothing but my own brain for company, I’m not big on _socializing_. 

I lean back against the dumpster, wishing I had a cigarette or something, to complete the whole ‘rebel without a cause’ thing. But instead I just reach into my bag, pull out one of the bottles of Sunny-D I have. (Yes, there’s more than one. Trish says it barely counts as juice, but I can’t _stand_ the all-natural, organic, pulp-filled, good-for-you shit that she drinks.) 

“High school blows,” I say to no one in particular. I raise the juice in mock-toast, then tilt it back.

“Seconded,” comes a slightly muffle voice behind me. I jump up like I’ve been electrocuted and wheel around.

There’s a boy in the dumpster. All I can see at first is a long, skinny brown arm and a tuft of _ridiculous_ hair poking out. Then his face as he hauls himself up and out, tumbling to the ground, but managing to roll to his feet with surprising grace. He even strikes a pose when he lands on his feet. I’d be impressed, if I weren’t so pissed. 

“Who the hell are you?” I snap, clenching my hand so tight around the juice bottle that it bursts in my hand. Sunny-D spills over everywhere. “Goddammit,” I mutter, tossing it aside.  
“Aww, juice,” the boy says, bending down to retrieve the bottle. “Littering isn’t cool, bro.” He studies it for a second, then glances up at me, one eyebrow quirked. 

“I’m not your bro,” I say, wiping my hand on my jeans. 

“Well, it’s not like I know your name. Or anyone’s name. I’m not good with names, really. New kid,” he says, sticking his thumb against his chest. “Just moved here, few weeks ago. I’m –” 

“Barton!” I look around, but the voice is coming from above us. I crane my neck upwards, to the roof, and see a shock of red hair and one very irritated girl. “Quit showing off!” she yells down to us.

The boy grins up at her, blows her a kiss. “Come on, Nat! That was my best getaway yet!”

“Getaway from what?” I ask, glancing between the two of them. “From her?”

“Oh, god, no,” he says, shaking his head, sending his ridiculous hair flying. There’s hearing aids in his ear, bright purple and shiny. “She’s my best friend. And fellow defender against the assholes who like to stuff me in garbage cans every chance they get. I swear, high school bullies _really_ need to think up some new tactics.”

“So you got away,” I repeat. “By stuffing yourself in the dumpster instead.”

He frowns. “That was… unintentional,” he admits, pulling a stray piece of yesterday’s lunch out of his hair and tossing it aside. “But it totally sort of worked.”

“All your plans that well-thought out?” I ask, giving him a long look. 

“Most are worse,” the girl calls down. I glance up to see her climbing down the wall, finding footholds that are practically goddamn invisible. Now _that’s_ impressive. Who the hell are these two?

She lands with ten times the grace and far less theatrics than he did. Then she smacks his shoulder. “You are the worst partner, Clint,” she says, shaking her head. “Lucky for you, I have things handled.” 

“How many of ‘em are still conscious?” he asks with a grin. Nat rolls her eyes.

“I only made one bleed, but I think the break will be an improvement on his nose, honestly,” she says, eyes flicking to me. 

“Good,” Clint says, glancing up at the roof. “Come back for more anytime, bros!” he shouts up at the vague figures just starting to stand up and stagger out of view. 

“They probably didn’t learn anything,” I say, smirking at the two of them. “If anything, you just pissed them off more.”

“They should be. Getting their asses handed to them by a girl half their size,” Nat says breezily. 

I like them immediately.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nat and Clint are apparently both new. They’re both from specialized government academy, and part of some transfer program, meant to ‘foster inter-school cooperation,’ which judging from their tone, they both think is bullshit.

“I’m pretty sure they just transferred me because I was too much trouble,” Clint says, waving a hand through the air as we walk back inside. “I swear, Principal Fury had it out for me.”

“And they transferred me so I can keep an eye on you,” Nat says. She walks with perfect posture, spine straight and head held high. He’s got that rough-and-tumble thing going on, from his jeans that have holes in them from actual wear and tear, to his slightly crooked jaw, like he’s been hit in the face one too many times. But she’s model-perfect, face sharp and angular, _far_ too pretty for any goddamn sophomore.

If it weren’t so goddamn obvious that Clint’s completely in love with her (and that she loves him just as much despite all her jibes at him), I’d definitely have a new girl crush. Apparently, _It’s Patsy!_ has fostered a love of redheads in me that I just can’t shake. (I can never, ever let Trish find out about that, by the way.)

I’ve got a new Sunny-D open, sipping lightly, content to listen to them ‘bicker’ as we wind our ways through the halls. There’s still ten minutes to the next bell, so we’ve got the place to ourselves for a little while, which makes me breathe a little easier. It’s still strange. New posters on the walls, different banners hung up to promote ‘school spirit.’ (They still make me gag.) Everything is just still familiar. The lockers feel the same as I trail my fingers along them, tapping everyone’s locks, but it feels far away, like I’m dreaming it. I’ve been feeling that way a lot lately, ever since I came back to the real world. The doctors at the hospital said ‘adjusting’ might be hard for me at first, that this was all _normal_ , or some bullshit. 

“What about you?” Nat asks, shaking me out of my thoughts. I blink at her, pull my hands away from the locker and adjust the strap on my bag. 

“What about me?” I ask, taking another sip from my Sunny-D.

“What’s your name?” Clint interjects, and I’m actually thankful. That’s a way easier question to answer.

“Jessica Jones,” I say. “I, uh, used to go here. Been out for a while,” I say, careful to keep my grip on the Sunny-D not too tight. My hands are still sticky from before.

“How come?” he asks, and I’m not so thankful anymore.

I shrug. “Car accident,” I say, casually, like I’m commenting on the weather. Like it’s nothing. Like it was a fender-bender, not something that ripped my whole life apart. 

They exchange a look, but before either of them can say anything, the bell rings. The hallway is suddenly flooded with students, pushing and shoving past us. We have to huddle together to avoid getting lost in the sea of bodies. 

“Eat lunch with us,” Nat yells over the din of a thousand teenagers all talking at once. She pulls Clint from going the wrong way, and I just nod at them. Maybe I actually will. It’d be a nice change from eating alone, not that I’ve ever minded. I’ve always liked being alone, it’s easier. People are so goddamn disappointing.

 _But these two might not be_ , I think as I watch them disappear into the crowd. It’s a dangerous line of thinking, really. Sighing, I drag myself to Math class. At least numbers don’t change, they always make sense. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trish and I share fourth period English, which is a goddamn godsend, because I hate reading. I mean, I don’t, with the right books. But this _Catcher in the Rye_ shit? Boring. I hated it the first time around, and re-reading it isn't doing much to change my opinion.

She sits beside me, which is new and starts a whole new wave of whispers. Mrs. Gardner is good though, she silences the whole class with one simple throat clear, and they all turn back to their books.

“Does any of this matter?” I mumble to Trish, grimacing at the book.

She smiles at me, her real smile. I’ve gotten good at spotting the difference, but almost no one else can. It’s subtle, and all in the eyes. They light up when she smiles for real, but when it’s for the cameras, her eyes are just a little dead inside. Maybe that’s from the Xanax she pops before every press conference or public appearance, but that’s probably just me _not getting_ it, as she puts it.

“You sound like Holden,” she says, scribbling something down on the partner project sheet we’re working on ‘together.’ Her handwriting is prettier than mine, a flowing perfect cursive. I tend to get papers back with a lot of questions marks and ‘please write neater’ written in the margins. 

“Holden’s an asshole,” I mutter, flipping through the pages haphazardly. 

“So are you,” Trish shoots back. “But I like you anyway. Now, what do you think Holden’s greatest weakness is?”

It’s my turn to smile. A small one, but she has a way of pulling a real goddamn smile out of me, even when I’m wishing I could melt the pages of this book together. If only I’d gotten laser-eyes instead of superstrength.

‘We’ finish the questions early, and as a reward, we get to hang out on Mrs. Gardner’s famous bean bags. They’re as squishy and fantastic as I remember them being. I wait until her back is turned to pull another Sunny-D out of my bag. (Mrs. G is cool, but she has a very strict ‘no snacks’ policy in class.)

“That isn’t even real juice,” Trish says, leaning back against the wall. Her eyes flutter shut lazily, her head lolling just a little. My smile fades.

“Gonna give _me_ a lecture on health, Walker?” I whisper, leaning towards her. I shake her shoulder a little, to keep her conscious. “What the hell did you take this time?”

She pulls her arm out of my grasp. “ _Ow_ ,” she says pointedly, giving me a dirty look. “Nothing, Jess. God, you’re so dramatic.” 

I give her a look just as dirty and intense right back, until she finally caves. She opens her purse (seriously, am I the only girl in this school who doesn’t have a goddamn purse), and shows me a tiny pill bottle. It’s half-empty. 

“They’re _prescribed_ ,” she reminds me in a low whisper. 

“Yeah,” I drawl. “By a doctor paid off by your nutjob mother.” I reach out to snatch them, but she jerks the bag away.

“You really are an asshole,” she says to me. I contemplate ripping the bag out of her hands, crushing the pills one by one, but that’s more trouble than it’s worth. Besides, I hate it when Trish is pissed at me. 

I shrug, and slump back into my own bean bag. I can’t argue that. (Only an asshole causes a car wreck that kills her whole family after all.) “Sorry for occasionally giving a damn,” I mutter, ‘accidentally’ kicking her outstretched foot. “That’s my greatest goddamn weakness.” 

She kicks me back. We spend the rest of the period not looking at each other. At least lunch is next. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trish raises a brow when I wave off her invitation to sit with her. “Come on, Jess,” she says, and there’s a hint of apology in her voice. It’s the same voice she puts on when Ms. Walker starts acting up, but a little more sincere. 

“It’s not that,” I say quickly, not needing to clarify what _that_ means. I scan the cafeteria, spot that ridiculous hair and shock of red easily. “I just promised some other people.”

She follows my gaze, a grin spreading across her face. “Did Jessica Jones make some actual friends?”

I roll my eyes. “Can’t annoy you all the time,” I say, grabbing my tray. My wrist still twinges, but it’s a phantom pain. The physical therapist said I healed quicker than most people they’d seen with similar injuries. “Besides, your cheerleader-and-jock table makes me nauseous,” I say, smirking at her so she knows I’m kidding. (Mostly.)

She gives me one of her patented looks. “Well, you should invite them to my cheerleader-and-jock filled party next weekend,” she says, flashing me a grin before heading off to her table. 

She doesn’t even give me time to say no, which is a cheap trick. 

I approach Nat and Clint. They’re knee-deep in some discussion about an apparently infamous play they’d worked on once, called _Budapest_. 

“Come on,” Clint says. “It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“You knocked out my leading man before the final performance,” she reminds him. 

“I volunteered to be his understudy!”

“And forgot half your lines. Shakespeare rolled over in his grave watching you perform,” Nat replies, but there’s a trace of affection in her tone, making the words teasing instead of mean. She _can_ be mean, I’m sure of that, she’s got that vibe, but she isn’t with him. 

“Jessica!” Clint says, as I set down my tray and sit across from them. “Help me out here.”

“There’s no help for you, Barton,” I say, uncapping another bottle of Sunny-D. “Even I know that much.”

Nat snickers into her salad. Clint pouts and slumps dramatically in his chair. He runs a hand through his hair, and I catch a glimpse of the hearing aid again. 

“You two are ganging up on me. Not fair!” he declares, reaching for his slice of pizza. He takes a huge bite, grinning as he chews.

“Since when is life fair?” I grimace at my own slice. “How the hell can you actually _enjoy_ eating this stuff?”

“’Ou’ve go’ a poin’. Bu’ pizza’s pizza, Jones,” he answers through a mouthful of food. Nat and I share a bemused look, shaking our heads at him. 

They chat a little more, but they know each other so well it’s hard to follow the conversation. Food or no food, Clint talks fast and animatedly, sometimes spraying the table with crumbs, and sometimes Nat barely has to finish a sentence before he jumps right back in. It’s actually sort of fun, just watching the two of them. Their hands brush against each other briefly at one point, and they both jerk away so fast, like I’ve caught them doing something forbidden. I pretend to be engrossed in picking at the label of my Sunny-D.

The bell rings, and we go to toss our trays at the clean-up window. I hesitate before leaving though. “My – uh, sister, Trish,” I say, glancing around for her, but she’s already gone. “She’s having some sort of party next weekend.”

“Didn’t take you for the party type,” Nat says, dumping her tray. Clint picks the last piece of crust off his before following suit. 

“I’m not,” I say simply. “But I’m always into a little underage drinking. Come? Make it suck a little less.” I try to keep my tone casual, like I’m not actually pleading with them. 

Nat shrugs, but Clint nods excitedly. “As long as I get a Sunny-D,” he says, grinning at me. Nat pulls his shirt, and they’re off before I can shoot back a reply. 

I wonder briefly if they actually have every class together, or if they just follow each other in spite of it. Either way, it’s clear they’re a package deal. I’m not sure where I fit into it, I’ve never really tried fitting into anyone’s life before. Trish was different, that I had no choice in. But these two…

I shake my head, deciding I’ve had enough existential crises for one teenager, and head off to science.


	2. AKA Aren’t Teenagers Supposed To Act Stupid At Parties?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The infamous party. Drunken teenagers, and one very ill-fated game of Truth or Dare.

The party totally does suck. 

Trish is off with some starlet friends, ‘coworkers’ from _It’s Patsy!_ and I haven’t seen her in hours. That alone has me on edge, and the vodka isn’t doing much for my state of mind. The doctors at the hospital warned me that ‘substance abuse’ was bad for my recovery, but _fuck_ recovery, honestly. 

Those _kids_ Trish walked off with are the same ones from the Tablecloth Incident. At least there’s no goddamn candles at this party.

“Heya, Jones!” I turn my head to see that ridiculous hair, Nat following right behind him. They sit down next to me on the couch, one look from Nat enough to make the boy who was sitting there bolt. I’m glad for that, since his idea of a pick-up line was ‘the coma didn’t make you any less hot.’

“We can’t stay long. Nat and I have a thing later,” Clint says, slinging an arm across the back of the couch.

“I was right,” I say to them, the words slurred and heavy in my mouth. They stare at me blankly. “You two,” I say, gesturing with my red cup. Vodka and soda slosh out the side. “Are always together.”

Clint looks more confused than ever, like he can’t imagine why that was even in question. Nat looks the same as ever, but I can see a little flicker of concern in her eyes. “Yes,” she answers simply. “We usually are.” 

“Knew it,” I say proudly, tilting back my cup. Too fast, it spills over onto my shit. “Shit,” I mutter, wiping at it for a few seconds before giving up.

Nat reaches over and plucks the cup from my hands. “Hey!” I protest, but she silences me with a simple look. I slump back onto the couch. “This party sucks. Booze makes it suck less,” I mumble.

“Thought that was our job?” Clint says, nudging my shoulder. I roll my eyes at him, push him back. A little too hard, it sends him sprawling against Nat. 

She leans towards me. “You okay, Jess?”

“Fine,” I snap. “It’s a _party_ , Nat. Aren’t teenagers supposed to act stupid at parties?”

Nat doesn’t say anything, just gazes out at the sea of other stupid teenagers. It’s too loud to talk anyway. A boy jumps up on the table, he has to cup his hands around his mouth to be heard. 

“Truth or dare time!” he yells, and there’s a _whoo_ from the crowd in response. “Ten minutes, outside! Be there, if you _dare!_ ”

I _hate_ parties, and I hate party games more. But there’s liquor in my veins, and if we keep sitting here, Nat and Clint will keep giving me those looks, so I hop up. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s play. Unless you two are too scared?” I smirk at them, and saunter off, stumbling only a little.

Maybe it’s the challenge that makes them follow me. I’m not sure, and when I grab another cup off a random table, I decide that I don’t care why. I’m just glad they are.

Soon enough, there’s a small crowd sitting in a circle in Trish’s back yard. I don’t recognize most of them, I’m technically not even supposed to be in their grade. 

Nat, Clint, and I sit together. It’s your standard truth-or-dare, except that if you refuse, you have to finish your glass. Nat and Clint both have a cup placed in front of them, but Clint tips his out when no one’s looking but me, and Nat doesn’t even touch hers. 

The first few rounds are boring, and I’m already too drunk to follow them. One girl has to tell her dirtiest fantasy, another boy has to go streak around the backyard. I cringe at them both.

Then one boy, a sophomore named Jeremy, fixes his eyes on me.

“Truth or dare, Coma Girl,” he says. I have to set my drink down before I crush the damn cup, and a part of me wants to get up and deck him, but Nat’s hand on my shoulder stops me. 

They expect me to say Truth, I bet. So they can ask me about it. But I’m not that stupid. “Dare,” I say fiercely. “But I’m _not_ getting naked, so you can forget that shit right now. Get your porn on the internet like everyone else.”

The rest of the circle goes _ooh_ , and there’s a sprinkle of giggles. “Okay, okay, calm down,” Jeremy says, holding up his hands. He pauses for a moment, considering his options. His eyes linger on Nat’s hand, still resting on my shoulder. 

“I dare you,” he says grandly. “To make out with any girl here. Except Trish, she’s like your sister now, right?”

“If I wanted to answer questions,” my reply is slurred. “I would’ve said truth, asshole.” I gaze around the circle, but really, there’s only one option. 

I turn to face Nat. Her hand slips from my shoulder, but she doesn’t look away. “You mind?” I ask, leaving it up to her. I’m not that big an asshole, even drunk. 

Her eyes flick to the cup in front of me. Maybe she just doesn’t want me to have to chug it. Maybe she’s taking pity on me. Whatever the reason, she nods. So I lean in and do it. I kiss her.

She’s a good kisser, her lips not as sharp as they seem. They’re actually soft and a little warm, and my hand reaches up to tangle in her red, red hair before I can stop myself. Fuck it, this might be my one and only chance, so I take it. And I’m greedy, only pulling away when the lack of oxygen makes passing out a very real possibility.

The entire circle is cheering, a few boys groaning when we finally pull away. I’m a little dazed (I blame the booze, not the kiss), but Nat is as sharp as ever. She turns to the circle. “Delete those pictures,” she says, pointing at two boys holding up their phone. “Or I’ll make you regret it.”

Something in her voice is deadly serious, enough to make them comply. I slump back in the grass, grinning. 

“Clint,” I say, turning my head lazily towards him. “Truth or dare?”

I’m expecting him to say dare, and fully intending on daring him to go jump in the nearest trash can, but he surprises me. “Truth,” he says, spreading his arms in a shrug. 

That throws me for a moment. I stare at him, and he just stares back expectantly. “Why d’you wear those hearing aids?” I say before I can stop myself. 

The ever-present grin on his face slides off in an instant. “To hear,” he says, clearly meaning it as a joke, but his voice is too cold to really land it. He kicks his cup aside and stands up. “This is boring. Someone else can have my turn,” he mumbles before stalking off. 

Nat follows him, and I’m not surprised. But it takes me a minute to pull myself off the ground. I stumble after them, tripping over myself, and pushing people out of the way ( _not too hard, not too hard,_ I remind myself). 

I finally catch up with them on the street outside Trish’s house. “Hey!” I yell, and they stop in their tracks. Nat looks back at me, and I almost wish she hadn’t because the simple look sends enough ice through my veins to sober me up in a second. She turns back to him, hands moving strangely. It takes me a minute to realize she’s signing. Sign language. Because he’s ripped the hearing aids out of his ears, and is holding them so tightly in his hand, I’m scared he’ll crush them.

I walk forward slowly, and I’m already stopping a few feet away when Nat holds up a hand. She signs something else, but he won’t even look at her. Or at me. 

Finally, she looks at me again. That same ice-cold feeling rushes through me. “What do you want, Jessica?” she asks. I was right, she can be mean when she wants to. Like Trish when I’ve gone too far.

“I…” I pause, trying to get my head together. I sigh irritably, though all of it is directed at myself. There’s a pressure in my chest, too tight to breathe, too tight to speak, so it takes me a minute to force the words out of my throat. “Sorry,” I say finally. The pressure lessens, but not a lot. It’s not like he can hear me. “I was – it was stupid. I was stupid.”

“Yes you were,” Nat says. But her words aren’t meant to be unkind. She’s not twisting the knife deeper, she’s just stating a fact. 

“I shouldn’t have made you guys play that bullshit game,” I mumble, rocking back and forth on my heels. I’ve never been good at standing still. “This whole thing, it was a mistake.” _I_ was the mistake, coming between them. 

Nat signs something to Clint – maybe translating what I’m saying, because he still won’t look at me. The party is still raging in the background, but it all feels far away again. Like I’m in a dream that I can’t wake up from. Or another nightmare. 

“You didn’t know,” she says finally. She takes a step towards me, leaving Clint kicking at a rock on the ground. But he watches her go, and finally, his eyes land on me.

I shake my head. “I don’t need to,” I say quickly. I address that to him, hoping maybe he can read lips. He seems to be following along. “It’s not my business. Sorry,” I say again. But the pressure doesn’t let up this time. If anything, it gets tighter. My lungs are going to burst any second.

Nat looks between us. She motions to him to put the aids back in. He gives her a long look, but after a moment, he does. 

“If you wanna go,” I say quickly, latching onto the moment. “I get it. I’ll leave you guys to it, I swear, I just – wanted to say that. Sorry,” I say, like a third time will make it right. But there’s things in this world you can’t ever make right. I’m learning that over and over, but somehow, I keep making the same mistakes. 

Nat nods slowly. Then shrugs. “It wasn’t all bad,” she says finally. “You’re a decent kisser, Jones.”

“Better than me?” Clint’s voice is shaky, but his old humor has flitted back in. “We had that one scene in _Budapest_ , remember?”

“I remember you forgetting all the lines in that scene, except ‘kiss me,’” she replies, the ghost of a smile on her face. 

Even now, they fall into old habits. Maybe because it’s comforting, this routine they have together. When they look at each other, I see something like what Trish and I have, when she isn’t trying to play up to the starlet role. When she sneaks into my room at night and we stay up until morning talking about everything and nothing. When she lets herself be a person. 

I take a step back from them, gesturing towards the party. “I should go,” I say. “You guys have that thing, right? And there’s more vodka back there I haven’t drunk yet, so…” I shrug.

They nod, but they don’t start off just yet. They look at each other, having a silent conversation. I’m too drunk to even imagine what it’s about, but eventually, they both turn to me. 

“Wanna come?” Clint asks, his old grin back on his face.

“You won’t regret it,” Nat says. “Or at least…” Her eyes flick to Trish’s house. “You’ll regret it less than this.”

That’s enough for me. “Lead the way,” I say. And we head off down the street.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We catch the subway and wind up in the warehouse district. I’m not as scared as I would’ve been before the accident – if I can lift a 150 pound chunk of marble over my head, I’m pretty sure I can handle a mugger or something. 

Nat and Clint seem at ease, too, barely batting an eye as we walk past decrepit old buildings. They lead the way to an abandoned warehouse, one marked with a spray-painted bullseye on the door. 

“I thought we were going to your house or something,” I mutter as we walk inside. Clint laughs loudly, a little too quickly, like it’s a defense mechanism. Nat flips a switch, and the lights flicker on.

The center of the room has been cleared out, the boxes pushed aside. It’s mostly empty, but there is a target set up against one wall, peppered with holes, clustered right around the heart. And leaning against one of the crates is a bow and a full quiver. 

I look between them. “What the hell are we doing here?”

Nat and Clint both smirk. “Training,” she says, stripping off her jacket. She starts to stretch, and he does the same. 

“Training for _what?_ ” I ask. 

“Anything,” Clint replies, and there’s an eagerness in his voice that I haven’t heard before. Something a little exciting, a little dangerous.

I wave a hand in the air. “I’m too drunk for this shit,” I say, shaking my head. (Immediately wishing I hadn’t, because the room spins wildly.) 

“Probably,” Nat says, striding to the center of the room. She stares back at Clint expectantly. “That’s why you’re just going to watch.”

I don’t have to ask _what_ I’m going to watch, because Clint steps forward to meet her. They nod to each other, and then lunge forward.

I’ve seen high school fights before. Luke Cage and Will Simpson got into a pretty gnarly fist-fight last year, when Will tried talking to Luke’s girlfriend Reva. It was violent and rough and messy, kids gathering around to egg them on, and only Matt Murdock stepping in stopped the two of them from killing each other. Nurse Temple was not impressed, and neither was I.

But this… this isn’t a fight. This is a _dance_. 

Clint and Nat move like ninjas, flipping over each other, dodging blows, lunging forward and back and around again. There’s something beautiful and fluid and _precise_ about every move they make, every hit they land. They aren’t holding back, but they aren’t out to hurt each other either. It’s different, different from Will and Luke and every other bullshit high school fight that breaks out in the hallways. They aren’t trying to destroy each other. In a strange way, it’s the opposite. Like they’re actually helping each other.

I’m absolutely mesmerized. I perch on a crate and watch them, mouth falling open in awe as they spin and duck and surge forward. Occasionally, one of them will glance at me. Clint will grin or Nat will give me a knowing look, and the other always uses that brief moment of distraction against them. But they keep doing it. Like they wanna remind me that they know I’m here. 

I’m not really a part of it, I’m just watching it from the sidelines. I almost wish I had a camera, so I could try and capture the magic unfolding in front of me. They’re not _gifted_ as far as I can tell, not like I am. (I could lift this crate I’m sitting on and chuck it across the room if I weren't this drunk.) But they don’t need to be. They’ve got something else, something pulsing through their veins, something fierce and fiery, something _good_. 

Heart, I decide in the end. There’s a heart to this sparring. And for a minute, the world doesn’t feel so far away and dreamlike. It doesn’t feel like it’ll slip away at any minute. The crate feels solid and real beneath me, just from watching these two. They’re unbelievable and mysterious and strange, but they’re _real_.


	3. AKA Sometimes You Can't Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ms. Walker returns home

It’s morning when we finally leave the warehouse.

After the sparring, Clint and Nat started playing around with the other stuff they had there. Apparently, they ‘borrowed’ it from their old school, dragged along during their transfer to keep their skills up. They did some gymnastic shit for a while, flips and jumps and at one point, Nat hauled herself over a low-hanging bar and spun around it so fast she was just a blur of red hair. 

Clint picked up the bow at one point, and I swear to god – I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that. My parents made me go to this summer camp three years back, and I took archery there because it seemed the least lame activity. (It was that or ‘arts and crafts’ and I wasn’t into boondoggle.) It was harder than I’d thought it’d be though, the bowstring kept snapping against my arm and half my arrows didn’t even get to the target. But Clint hit the mark every time, peppering the make-shift target with brand new holes. One for each eye, and then he even made a lopsided smiley-face to go with it. He was like goddamn Robin Hood, but with a better sense of humor. 

Nat, on the other hand, she played with a little bit of everything. They had these staves laid out on the table, and she twirled them around like they were made of feathers, but when she smacked the punching bag, it made a _thwack_ that echoed through the entire building. She ditched it after a while, focusing on her own body, punching and kicking like some sort of ninja. It was cool. Really cool.

Not that I said any of that out-loud. I just watched from on top of my crate, occasionally nodding off from all the booze in my system, but once in a while, I clapped or shot them a sarcastic thumbs up. They didn’t let up until I announced that I was thirsty. “Don’t have any Sunny-D, sorry Jones,” Clint replied. 

“Or booze,” Nat said, smirking lightly at me. I scowled, and they packed up while I stood, stretching.

When we step outside, the sun is starting to come up, and I have to blink to adjust my eyes to it. Nat and Clint walk with me as far as they can, chatting the whole time, barely out of breath. 

This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. I can’t help but wonder exactly what kind of freakin’ school they transferred from. They told me the name once, _Shield Academy_ , and I decide to do a quick google on Trish’s laptop when I get back to the Walkers.

Not home. I don’t have a home, not anymore. Ms. Walker’s made that pretty damn clear. 

“I’ll see you guys Monday,” I say, biting back a sigh. I don’t want to go back, don’t want to see what a disaster Trish has left, but someone’s gotta look out for her. And that someone is me, since she doesn’t have anyone else. She has a mother and an agent all rolled into one, but Ms. Walker is next to useless when it comes to _actually_ raising her kid. 

“Monday,” Nat says with a nod. She and Clint walk off in the opposite direction, heading for the subway. I could catch one myself, even get a taxi and make Trish pay for it when I get there, but I want to walk. Clear my head some more. 

When I finally get back to the house, it’s quiet. But there’s cups littered across the yard, and a boy passed out on the front steps. I sigh now that there’s no one around to hear me, and walk up to him, nudging him with my foot.

He grunts, and rolls over.

“Hey, come on,” I say, bending over to shake his shoulder. A little harder than I need to, his eyes shoot open.

“Ow,” he says, glaring at me. I recognize him, he’s Greg Galaga. (Not his real name, but he’s addicted to old-school video games and everyone calls him that.) “Go away, Coma Girl.”

I punch his shoulder. “Go home, Galaga. Sleep it off on your own steps.”

He stands up, rubbing his arm, and stumbles off. I go in.

There’s more sleeping/passed out assholes inside. I kick and shake whoever I pass by, recognizing a handful. They all hate me, most aren’t afraid to say so, but I ignore them. I’m just doing damage control while I look for Trish.

I finally find her in the living room, slumped over the arm of the couch, red cup still in her hand. There’s a boy on top of her, but my immediate fury is lessened a little when I realize it’s only Matt Murdock. He’s an okay dude, and her clothes are all still on. Between that and the fact that his best friend, Foggy Nelson, is asleep on top of _him_ , I’m guessing it wasn’t that kind of sleepover. (There’s drool on Murdock’s shoulder and everything.) 

I kick both boys’ shoes. Matt stirs immediately, hands reaching out for his cane. I see it on the floor, and hand it over to him. “Party’s over,” I say, kicking Foggy again. He just grunts.

“I can tell,” Matt says. I get the joke when he straightens his dark glasses. He’s been blind as long as I’ve known him, but rumor has it he wasn’t born that way. I’ve never asked, because we’ve never played drunk truth or dare together. He stands up, stretching, and pulls Foggy to his feet, too. 

“Come on, Avocado, let’s get back before your parents figure out we haven’t been in your room all night.” They’ve always called each other, since middle school Spanish. An inside joke that I’ve never bothered finding the story behind.

Foggy rubs a hand over his bleary eyes. “Good call,” he says, and they start off. 

Matt hesitates in the doorway. He motions vaguely to Trish, still facing forward (obviously). “She had a pretty rough night,” he says, that famous Murdock frown on his face. 

“I got her,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. Matt just nods, then he and Foggy head outside. 

I don’t bother waking up Trish until I’ve cleared out every other lingering party-goer. Then I yank the cup out of her grip and toss it aside. “Trish,” I say, but she doesn’t even move. “Trish, come on. We gotta clean this place up before your mom gets back tomorrow.”

Trish moans and rolls over on the couch, burying her head into the cushions. “Call a cleaning service. Patsy can pay for it,” she mumbles, voice muffled by the couch. 

I shake my head. Ms. Walker would see the bill, and Trish knows it. She’s just hungover and stupid. I grab a throw blanket from her room and drape it over her, then place a trash can and a glass of water on the floor beside the couch. “Try to aim your vomit,” I say to her. She groans in response, so I take that as an affirmative.

The clean-up is grueling and takes about 312 trash bags. But that’s a lot easier to hide than a cleaning bill, so I force myself to keep going. I’m exhausted and nursing my own headache, have to pound a bottle of water and like 4 ibuprofen (apparently normal doses no longer apply to me), just to keep moving. 

Finally, I ditch the last bag in our neighbors trash can, and I can collapse on the couch next to Trish’s feet. She’s a little more conscious now, watching some trashy Lifetime movie. She’s even made popcorn, and she shifts up to make room for me.

The movie is stupid, but stupidly engaging. About some kidnapped teenage girl who fights back against her captors in subtle ways. Apparently it’s based on a true story, Elizabeth Smart. But it must’ve happened while I was out, in that coma, because none of it makes any sense to me. Trish is enraptured. 

“It’s amazing,” she breathes about halfway through. “Look at her! She’s totally strong,” she sighs, laying her head on my shoulder.

She’s the only person in the world I’d let do that. Even if I am lowkey pissed at her. And she can tell, because she throws popcorn in my face. “Come on, Jess, tell me you don’t love her,” she says, smiling at me. 

I roll my eyes. “She’s an idiot,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Why the hell doesn’t she run? It’s not like they tie her up.” The kidnappers are trying to force some sort of Stockholm, they keep calling Elizabeth the wrong name and calling her their ‘daughter.’ But they only used zipties in the beginning, now she just sleeps right next to them, totally able to get away, but she never does. 

Trish doesn’t say anything, but she pulls away from me. I glance over at her, and her face is clouded over. Now _she’s_ pissed?

“What?” I ask huffily. “I just spent hours cleaning up your mess, you don’t get to be mad today.”

She just shakes her head, sets the popcorn on the table, not looking at me the entire time. “Sometimes you can’t run. They don’t need to tie you up to trap you,” she spits. “Sometimes, you gotta fight back in small ways.”

We both grow quiet. I realize we’re not really talking about the movie anymore.

“Sorry,” I mutter after a long moment. “I’m an ass.”

Trish sighs, running a hand through her tangled hair. She reaches for the remote, even though there’s at least ten minutes left, and turns it off. “I’m gonna shower,” she says, tossing the blanket aside and stalking off. 

I leave her to it. She can work through _whatever_ under the totally awesome shower-head in Ms. Walker’s personal bathroom, and I can use her laptop without being interrupted for at least forty minutes. Trish takes long ass showers.

 _Shield Academy_ has a homepage and everything. But it’s very bare-bones, except for the large ‘Apply Now!’ button at the bottom. There’s an address and a phone number, a quick ‘mission statement’ that says surprisingly little in 500 words. Apparently, they specialize in ‘training students for excellence,’ and their alumni usually goes on to be ‘prominent military members.’ But none of these alumni are listed anywhere, and there’s no list of teachers or faculty anywhere. 

As far as I can tell, it’s a private school that’s just shy of being a military boot-camp. But even that I can only get from reading between the lines. I can’t help but wonder how Nat and Clint wound up there, and why the hell Shield is doing a transfer-program with our school. It’s a crappy public school, Trish by far the biggest name there, and that’s only because she refused to be homeschooled. For once, she put her foot down against Ms. Walker.

When Trish emerges from the shower, she’s much cheerier. We eat ice cream and leftover party-pizza for dinner, and settle back on the couch for another movie marathon. She can’t be too pissed at me, because she lets me pick this time.

I go for _Gone Girl_ for about the thousandth time. Trish doesn’t complain, because she loves it, too. Amy Dunne is our mutual hero.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Trish is the one waking me up the next day. Her mouth is pulled into a tight frown, her whole body tense. “Wake up, Jessica,” she says, and I know she’s serious from the lack of nickname, so I pull myself off the couch. “She just texted me, she’s on the way back from the airport.”

She doesn’t need to say who. I sigh, and stumble towards our bathroom to take a shower. I take one last look through the house, making sure there’s no trace of Trish’s escapade left, then I hop in.

I’m quicker than Trish, mostly because even after all these months of living here, I can’t shake the feeling of being naked in someone else’s house. It’s too weird. 

When I step out, the mirror is barely fogged up. I turn on the fan anyway. I don’t need another lecture on being ‘lazy’ because I took a shower at noon. Ms. Walker likes us to be _punctual_ , even on weekends. 

Trish is straightening People’s Choice awards when I walk back into the living room. Dusting them, too. Her movements are jerky and stiff, so unlike the carefree Trish she only shows to me. Her mother brings out the worst in her, makes her compulsive. 

“Chill,” I say, taking a seat at the dining room table. I pull out some homework, so it looks like we’re being productive, and motion to the seat beside me. “She’s been schmoozing with Hollywood bigheads all weekend, you know that’ll put her in a good mood.”

Trish nods, straightens the trophies one more time, then sits down beside me. We actually do start working, she’s talking me through another assignment on _The Catcher In The Rye_ , when the door opens.

“Girls!” Ms. Walker says, in that falsely cheery tone. She has her sunglasses on still, despite the fact that it’s _September_ and not nearly as sunny here. “Well, don’t just stand there,” she says, leaving her bags by the table. “Help me unpack. I brought you goodies,” she says, smiling at us.

It’s a smile that leaves me feeling slimey. But Trish and I don’t hesitate, we hop up the second she speaks. Trish grabs the rolling suitcase and I heft the carry-on over my shoulder. 

“Be careful, dear,” Ms. Walker says to me. “That’s heavy.”

“Yeah,” I mumble. _Not for me_ , but I don’t dare say that out-loud. I know she’s just baiting me.

“Yes,” Ms. Walker corrects coolly. I want to say something else, but Trish’s furtive glance stops me. The two of us haul her bags to Ms. Walker’s bedroom. I’m all for dumping them on the floor and leaving, because even the Salinger is more appealing than dealing with Ms. Walker’s dirty clothes, but Trish starts unpacking carefully. She hangs up the dry-cleaning her mother returned with, and gathers up the dirty clothes and carries them to the laundry room. I shove the empty suitcases into the closet, not caring much.  
_Gotta fight back in small ways_ , I remind myself.

When we walk back out into the living/dining room, Ms. Walker is looking over our homework. “This could be neater,” she says to Trish, who just nods. She always looks so small when her mother is in the room, like just being near the woman robs her of something. 

Ms. Walker frowns at my scribbling, taps a doodle I made in the corner of a math worksheet. “This isn’t very professional, Jessica.”

“Good thing I’m a student, not an employee,” I reply before Trish can stop me. Ms. Walker meets my eyes, but I don’t look away. She doesn’t scare me – but I scare her. She breaks it first.

“Present time!” she announces. She reaches for her purse, and pulls out a couple of things. “For you, Jessie –”

“Jessica,” I correct. I’m feeling brave, because I’m imaging Nat pummeling her face the way she trounced that punching bag. 

“ – A hairbrush. You have such lovely hair, I wish you’d let me do something with it,” she says, pushing the brush towards me. I pick it up without saying thank you. It’s actually useful – I’ve been borrowing Trish’s ever since I broke mine. But like hell I’ll tell _her_ that. 

“I like it like this,” I say, deliberately leaning forward so it falls into my face. Just to annoy her. Ms. Walker doesn’t say anything, she just picks up the pill bottle on the table and walks over to Trish, pressing it into her hand.

“And for you, my darling,” she says, folding her hands over Trish’s. “A brand new diet pill! Everyone in LA is trying them, and _loving_ the results.” She smiles at her daughter, in what I’m sure she thinks is a ‘warm’ way. Trish nods, glancing down at their entangled hands. She’s a good actress, even I can only barely tell how much she wants to pull away. 

“Thank you,” Trish says in a quiet voice. She even manages to smile, her camera smile. The fake one. 

“Thank you, _ma’am_ ,” Ms. Walker says, because she finds fault in everything Trish does. It makes my blood boil. “Every little bit counts, right _Fatsy?_ ” She grins as she says it, like she’s teasing. Like she’s not trying to make Trish feel two feet tall.

“Trish, wanna help me put this away?” I say, stepping between them. I pull on Trish’s elbow, shooting a look over my shoulder, _daring_ Ms. Walker to try and stop me. The woman’s eyes are icy-cold, but she releases Trish, waving her hands in the air. 

“By all means,” she says, picking up her cellphone from the table. “I have a lot of calls to make. Those Patsy comics are coming along!” she says excitedly, tapping into her Blackberry. “You sure superstrength is the way to go, Pats? One of the producers had an idea, something about _rainbow_ powers. Now _that_ could be –”

“I’m sure,” Trish says, glancing at me and smiling gently. An actual smile. “It’s the best power out there.”

“Except maybe flying,” I add, tugging on Trish’s elbow. “Come on,” I say, gathering up our homework. “Let’s work in your room.”

“I’ll be in the study!” Ms. Walker yells as we walk off. We shut the door behind us.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I hate her,” Trish says, for about the tenth time since we’ve closed the door. Which is impressive, because we’ve only been here five minutes. 

I’m sprawled in her bean bag, while Trish sits in front of her vanity. She brushes her hair with my ‘present,’ our homework forgotten on her bed where I dumped it. The diet pills are on the vanity, Trish keeps glaring at them. 

“Tell me how you really feel,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Ms. Walker makes me want to tear my skin off, so I don’t blame her. But it’s exhausting, and the doctors at the hospital kept harping on about me getting enough rest.

“I really feel like I want you to throw her across the room again,” Trish mutters darkly. She snatches up the pills. “Can you believe her?” she asks, stalking over to her closet, pill bottle in hand. Still, I catch her looking herself up and down in the mirror.

I sigh, and haul myself to my feet. “Gimme those,” I say. Trish blinks at me, but she hands over the bottle. _Probably the only pills she doesn’t want to immediately snort_ , I think, but I keep it to myself. No point kicking Trish when she’s already down. 

I hold up the pill bottle, shaking it and grinning until Trish’s real smile creeps across her face. Then I crush the bottle in one hand, squeezing it into a ball until it pops, sending pills scattering everywhere. Trish squeals with laughter, and I smile. That’s all I wanted to hear. Trish has the best laugh. 

“She’s a dick. And an ass. A dick-ass, if you will,” I say, tossing the crumpled bottle out the window. It goes far enough to hit the curb – on the _opposite_ side of the street. “You don’t need that shit, you know that,” I say, even though _I_ know that _she_ doesn’t. Trish, teen TV starlet, is riddled with insecurities that leave holes in her, so much that sometimes, she looks more like swiss cheese than a teenage girl. “You’re perfect, Trish. Just the way you goddamn are.”

“Think so?” Her eyes flick to the mirror on the back of her closet door again. 

“ _Yes_ ,” I say, shutting the door to prove my point. “Do you have any idea how many boys in our grade have pictures of you hanging up in their locker?” I step on a few pills as I walk back to the bean bag, crunching them beneath my feet. It doesn’t even take much, they’re probably just sugar, honestly. Or something much more dangerous. Either way, I don’t want them in my sister.

Trish giggles and follows me, picking up the brush before sitting down beside me on the beanbag. It’s actually big enough for both of us, but she squishes in next to me anyway, and I don’t mind. “This thing is cheap as hell,” she says, turning it over in her hand.

“Well your mother has shitty taste in presents,” I reply, rolling my eyes. 

“Shitty taste in presents, _ma’am_ ,” Trish says, smirking at me. I shove her gently, but she bounces right back, turning so she’s laying in my lap. “Hey, how’d you like the party?” she asks in a hushed whisper, craning her neck to glance up at me. “I looked for you after a while, but I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I left,” I tell her, and she raises a brow.

“With someone?”

“Two someones. And it’s not like that,” I say tapping her forehead. “Nat and Clint, those ones I told you about? They came, and then we left.”

“Where’d you go?” she asks. She loves hearing about my friends, far more than I like hearing about hers. Maybe it’s because my life is so different from hers. So much more _normal_ – on the surface anyway.

I think about the warehouse, Nat and Clint’s fight, the smiley-face made of arrows, the punching bag beaten to within an inch of its life. A tiny smirk crosses my face. “Wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I say, shaking my head.

Trish pouts. “Come on, Jess,” she whines. “I’ll tell you about my night, if you tell me about yours!”

“Your night consisted of drinking, drugs, and probably more sex than I wanna think about,” I shoot back.

“I’m a virgin, thank you very much.”

“Still.”

“Come on,” Trish says, sitting up and facing me. “Since when do we have secrets from each other?”

She has a point – but these aren’t my secrets. I could spin her some lie, but Trish would see through it, and half-truths feel just as wrong, even if she wouldn’t be able to tell as easily. “Tell you what,” I say, running a hand through her blonde hair. “Next time, we’ll take you with us, It was more fun than the party, I can tell you that much.”

“That’s because you have _no_ idea how to party,” Trish says, sighing dramatically. But she seems placated when her eyes meet mine. “You promise?” she asks, and I nod. 

For a second we’re quiet, but it’s a comfortable sort of silence. Like a blanket, instead of a heavy weight. 

“Heard you kissed a girl,” Trish says after a minute. “Will Simpson said –”

“Will Simpson is an asshat,” I reply. “But he’s not wrong.”

Trish laughs. “I think Will’s cute,” she says. “Can you at least tell me about _that?_ ”

“About Will being cute? Nah. That’d have to be true first.”

“You’re so dumb,” Trish says, sitting up and walking over to our homework.

“Takes one to know one.”

She tosses a pillow at my face.

“Come on, dumb-dumb. Let’s get this stuff finished before school,” she says, waving _The Catcher In The Rye_ at me.

I sigh and stand up. But for once, I’m actually excited to get back to the school. I wanna ask Nat and Clint when we’re going back to the warehouse – and when I can take Trish.


	4. AKA Who The Fuck Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gym class, an invitation, and an unexpected guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but this fic is not forgotten! Special appearances in this chapter, hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Some time has passed between this chapter and the last, about a month or so.

“This is torture.”

Nat grins at me. “Don’t whine,” she calls from her spot just in front of the goal. They stuck her there because she was starting to scare everyone as a forward.

“I’m not whining. I’m stating a fact,” I say, tossing a tuft of grass towards her. It flutters uselessly in the breeze. “The only thing _worse_ than gym is sitting out of gym,” I huff. 

“Still not torture,” Nat says, but she keeps her eyes on the ball. She’s focused in everything she does, like she can’t help herself.

Everyone else is running after the ball (or at least pretending to) while Coach Eastman barks out ‘encouragement’ and makes marks on her clipboard. It’s not a pleasant sight, between the spit flying from Coach’s lips, the kids trying desperately not to get hit in the face, and the gym-class heroes. (Who are trying desperately, period.)

And then there’s Coma Girl, sitting on the sidelines.

It’s not like I particularly like gym. I’m not exactly champing at the bit to get on this fumbling, awkward mess of a game. It was more the look on Coach Eastman’s face, that weird mix of disdain and pity, when she informed me that because of my _condition_ , we’d be be ‘exploring alternative physical education options.’

Which meant packets. Lots and lots of packets, little print-outs on every goddamn sport known to man, complete with annoyingly condescending tests at the end. (What color is a traditional soccer ball? How many players are allowed on the basketball court? How many points is a touchdown worth?)

I’ve been doing packets for almost a month now. Ms. Walker has me out on ‘indefinite’ leave, which is probably less about my recent-awakening to the world and more about the unexpected side effects that came with it. At first, I wasn’t complaining. I don’t want anyone to know that I could kick that ball into the next borough without breaking a sweat. Only Trish and her mother know what I can do – and it’s probably better that way. I’ve heard people talk about mutants.

I haven’t even told Nat and Clint. When we go to the warehouse, I just watch. Like I am now. 

As much as it pains me, I’ll stick to the packets, at least for now. (The coma excuse won’t work forever, but I’ll worry about that when I have to.) And that means spending forty five minutes every other school day picking at grass and watching from the sidelines. Part of the class only peripherally.

The _only_ saving grace to all this is sophomores and freshmen have gym class together. Which makes it the one class I have with both Nat and Trish.

My sister’s on the other end of the field, talking with a few other girls from her social bracket. (Which means their hair is perfect, their skin is flawless, and the ones with braces manage to make it look cute. Assholes.) They occasionally start half-running in the vague direction of the ball, but most of their energy is spent gossiping. Still, every now and then, Trish looks over at me and makes a face, or actually smiles. A different smile than she gives to her girlfriends, and honestly, it’s all that keeps me going some days.

“Heya!” a voice calls from behind me. I don’t need to look back to know who it is.

“Eventually,” I tell Clint, as he plops down beside me, “You’re gonna get busted for skipping class just to shadow Nat.”

Clint smirks at me, and hauls his backpack into his lap. It’s tattered, with a S.H.I.E.L.D. badge sown sloppily onto the front. (The periods between each letter catch my eye – an acronym? For what?) “Already have,” he says, pulling out a mess of pink slips. He stuffs them back in, and starts digging through the bag. 

“You’re an idiot,” I say, leaning back on the grass. I’m running through possible acronyms in my head, but I’m not getting anywhere fast. 

“Don’t be like that,” he says, fake-pouting. “I brought a peace offering.” He pulls out a Sunny-D and shakes it at me. I roll my eyes before snatching it.

It’s a never-ending source of amusement for him, my penchant for Sunny-D. He’s asked me about a dozen times (a day) why I like it so much, but I never answer. He’s used to that, it doesn’t deter him at all.

Sitting on the sidelines isn’t so bad with Clint next to me. He does a little running commentary that’s goddamn _hysterical._ Not that I’ll ever tell him that. It’ll only encourage him. 

“Aaaaand Galaga goes for the goal – ooh, that’s gotta hurt. His pride mostly, but his toes too,” he quips as Galaga tries to score, but ends up stubbing his toe against the grass. I snort, and almost wind up with Sunny-D coming out my nose. 

“Knew you thought I was funny, Jones,” Clint says, grinning at me. 

I toss grass at him, and it lands in his hair. He shakes his head, his fro swinging wildly. 

“You’re funny as a heart attack,” I tell him, taking another sip of the juice.

“You have one of those, too? Thought you stuck more to the unconscious medical conditions,” he says, leaning back with me. 

He’s one of the only people who can joke about it without sounding like a dick. I punch his arm anyway, almost, _almost_ forgetting to hold back. I pull it at the last second, but he still jerks back.

“Uh, ow,” he says pointedly. His brow furrows for a second. Thoughtful is a weird look on him. “What’s in those things? That why you chug ‘em down? Are they like, the spinach to your Popeye?”

“Your cartoon references are dated as hell,” I tell him, hoping it’ll be enough of a deflection. He opens his mouth to ask another question, but Eastman’s whistle rings through the air. 

“Hit the showers, ladies!” she shouts, like she does at the end of every class. Which is stupid – no one actually uses high school showers. Talk about creepy. (Maybe Carrie scared us all off.) 

I spring to my feet, thinking _saved by the whistle,_ and hold out a hand to haul Clint up, too. Nat walks over to both of us. 

“Did you tell her?” she asks, pulling the elastic from her red hair. It falls perfectly into place around her shoulders, and I would hate her if she wasn’t so goddamn pretty. 

“Tell me what?” I ask, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. Clint and Nat share one of those _looks_. Half-mischievous, half-we-know-more-than-you-and-we’re-goddamn-smug-about-it.

Trish lingers for a second, staring at me expectantly. I wave her on, turning back to the pair of assholes I call my friends. “Spit it out,” I sigh, biting my thumbnail. I’ve gotten used to expecting bad news, and their smiles aren’t doing much to slow my frantic heart rate. 

“We’re going again tonight,” Clint says, grinning so wide I’m surprised it’s physically possible. “And we want you to bring your sister.”

My jaw falls open and I drop my hand. “Seriously?” I ask, tightening my hand around the Sunny-D. ( _Not too tight,_ I remind myself. I hate being this careful.)

Nat nods. “Seriously,” she repeats, that unreadable smile on her face. Sometimes I wonder how genuine it is. How much of it is a show she’s learned to put on. 

“We vetted her,” Clint explains. “By which I mean, we read her wiki like ten times. You’re on there, ya know.”

“I know,” I mutter. But even the pain of my pseudo-fame as Trish Walker’s pity project can’t keep me down. Not now. “She’s gonna flip,” I say, not bothering to fight the smile on my lips.

“Make sure she wears something she can move in,” Nat says, and with that, she turns and walks away. Clint trots after her – I swear to god, he’d follow her into the locker room if Eastman didn’t keep watch. 

I jog until I catch up to Trish, which isn’t hard now. She walks slowly, always poised whenever she’s out in public, and I don’t care about making a fool of myself. Which I prove emphatically when I grab her elbow and drag her away from her little group. 

“I’ll catch you later, MJ,” Trish yells, clearly annoyed. “Apparently I have something important to attend to.”

MJ Watson just waggles her fingers and disappears inside the building. I pull Trish off to the side, and wait until the last of the stragglers are inside. Trish taps her foot the entire time, sighing heavily.

“ _What?_ ” she asks, her voice a little sharp. I’m confused until I see her hand twitch a little. 

My jaw clenches for a second. I bite back the question that immediately springs to mind – _how’s long has it been since you popped a pill, Walker?_ – and refocus on the matter at hand.

“Tonight,” I say simply. But not with nearly as much as enthusiasm as I had planned. Trish’s habits tend to deflate me on a good day. (On a bad day, they piss me the right the fuck off.) “Wear something you can move in,” I say, echoing Nat. 

Then I storm inside. Trish lets out a little squeal of excitement behind me, and races to catch up, tossing her arms around my shoulders. 

“I _knew_ you were conspiring again!” she whispers in my ear. It should be too little, too late. But I can’t ever stay mad at her. The smile is pulling at my lips again. 

“We don’t _conspire._ We talk,” I point out, shoving her arm off. “Just like you do with your friends.” 

Trish shakes her head, smiling so brightly for a second I can ignore the red in her eyes, the way her hand is still twitching every few seconds. “We talk about boys, boys, and more boys. It’s boring actually,” she says, sighing over-dramatically. I follow her into the locker room even though I’m still in my regular clothes. “You guys talk about cool stuff, like secret meetings. It’s totally conspiring.”

I lean against her locker and shake my head. “Whatever you say, Walker.”

Trish rambles on a little more, talking about what she’s going to wear, how we’re going to get across the city, excitement dripping from her words. I close my eyes and focus on that, instead of the rattle of the pill bottle she pulls from her locker. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_‘Do you need us to take you there?’_ Nat texts me around midnight. 

_‘we got it. c u there,’_ I shoot back. I nod to Trish, who’s been trying on different designer tracksuits for two hours. Ever since Ms. Walker stopped walking by her door, pretending she was just ‘passing by’ instead of spying. 

“Come on,” I say, tugging the clothes out of her hands and pulling her towards the window. We’ve both snuck out enough times to have this down to a science. I’m already out on the fire escape, but Trish hesitates inside the window.

“You think she knows something’s up?” she asks, twirling her ponytail through her fingers. I reach through the open window and grab her arm. (Gently. With her I don’t even have to remind myself, it’s just instinct.) “I’m serious,” she whines as I guide her out the window. I don’t even really have to try. She wants this, she does. “She was so _weird_ at dinner, and –”

“She was weird at dinner because you were eating like a goddamn human being instead of a rabbit,” I snap, the sharpness intended for her mother, and she knows it. “She’s always weird, Trish, you know that.” I want to say _don’t worry_ , but she will anyway. We both know that. “If we get caught, I’ll take the fall. I got you,” I say, meeting her eyes for a moment. 

Trish nods once, and we start down the fire escape.

It doesn’t take long to get there. The further we get away from that house, the more alive Trish becomes. She’s practically skipping by the time we reach the warehouse door, and I’m grinning widely as I push it open with ease. 

“It’s awesome, Trish,” I promise her as we step inside. “It’s gonna blow your goddamn mi –” 

Before I can finish the sentence, I’m on the ground. Trish screams as the robotic car that tripped me chases her up onto a cardboard box. 

A snicker echoes from the center of the room. I groan and curse under my breath, my bad wrist twinging a little as I push myself up to a sitting position. 

A boy, a little older than we are, is standing in the middle of the room with a remote control in his hands. He’s almost as well-dressed as Trish, and his hair is mussed up in a way that might’ve been attractive if I weren’t so goddamn _pissed off._

“Greetings!” he yells, having to so he can be heard over the roaring robot-car. It’s banging against the box Trish is on top of, engine whirring loudly. “ID-ten-T won’t hurt ya, c’mon,” he says, and flicks a switch. The car zooms backwards, almost running my fingers over but I manage to snatch them up just in time. 

I’m seeing red. I hear Trish climbing down behind me, also cursing, so I know she’s okay. It doesn’t stop me from scrambling to my feet and stalking over to the boy. I swing at him, but he ducks under my arm.

“Please,” he says, his voice lazily cocky from behind me. “I’ve been training with _Nat and Clint_ , gotta move faster to pull one over on me, little lady.”

“I’m no goddamn lady,” I seethe, wheeling around to face him. “Who the fuck are you?” Only Nat and Clint’s names keep me from swinging at him again. That and Trish’s hand on my shoulder. 

He raises a brow, eyeing me carefully for a second before looking back down at his remote. “Not with that mouth, that’s for sure,” he muses, fiddling with the joysticks. The car circles around our feet. I pick up a boot to stomp on it, but he whips it away at the last second. It careens wildly for a second, before tipping over onto its side.

“Well, shit,” he says, walking over to the car. He picks it up by a single wheel and slaps it down on a table. There’s tools and gears and all sorts of mechanical shit spread across it. (There’s even a goddamn welding torch for god’s sake.) And an open beer, which he picks up and raises in mock toast before tossing back for a long swig. “Guess that’s why I shouldn’t drink and drive, huh?”

My blood goes cold for a moment. I completely freeze, and Trish can tell, because her hand squeezes my shoulder tightly. Whether to remind me that I’m still here, that I’m still breathing, or whether to hold me back, I’m not entirely sure. 

The boy doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busy tinkering with his robot car, muttering to himself like he’s completely forgotten we’re here. I can barely hear him over the pounding in my ears, but I’m fairly certain he’s _mocking_ the car. Or at least berating it. 

“I asked you a goddamn question, asshole,” I say finally, clenching my jaw. I reach up and put a hand over Trish’s, silently telling her that I’m okay. Or at least that I’m not gonna deck this kid anytime soon. 

He glances up, half-confused, half-affronted. “I’m offended,” he says, placing a hand still holding a screwdriver over his heart. “You don’t recognize me.”

“Tony Stark,” Trish says immediately. “Oh my god. You’re Tony Stark.” I shoot her a look, but her eyes are fixed on him. Glazed over with _admiration._ Which is barely a step up from drugs, but I’ll take it.

Tony grins, and sets down the screwdriver and car, crossing over to us again. He wipes his hand on his shirt, but it’s still greasy when he extends it out to Trish. She takes it anyway, giggling a little when he presses his lips against her hand. “And you’re Patsy Walker.”

“Trish,” we both correct in unison. I relax a little. At least she’s not that goddamn star-struck. 

“Trish,” he repeats, kissing her hand again. “Pleasure’s all mine,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

“She’s too young for you, Stark,” calls a familiar voice. I breathe a sigh of relief as Nat comes into view. Clint, quiver already slung over his shoulder, isn’t far behind. 

Tony straightens up and grins at the pair of them. “You didn’t tell me she was our guest for the night. I would’ve dressed better,” he says, a fake pout on his lips. I feel the urge to punch him sneak up again.

Nat pushes Tony’s robot car aside, clearing off part of the table and setting a bag on top of it. Sleek, black, practical, exactly like she is. “Jessica, Trish, this is Tony Stark. Don’t let him fool you. He’s not nearly as aggravating as he seems. His brilliance makes up for some of it.”

Tony looks offended again, but this time it’s playful. “I think you meant _genius_ , Nat. Come on, I’m trying –”

“We all know what you’re trying to do, bud,” Clint says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Give it up. Trust me, you touch her sister, and Jessica will beat you to death, eat your flesh, and sew your skin into her clothing. And if you’re _very_ lucky, she’ll do it in that order,” he says, winking at me. 

“Didn’t know you two were hanging out with Reavers these days. What kind of school did Fury send you to?” Tony asks, moving back to his table. He picks up the robot car again, ripping out a chunk of metal entirely and taking a screwdriver to the inside. 

“Tony’s from Shield Academy,” Nat says, as if she was never interrupted. “Graduated last year, now he TAs for engineering classes.”

“I _teach_ engineering classes. Just unofficially,” Tony says, waving a screwdriver absentmindedly in the air. “For some reason, a nineteen year old isn’t allowed to be a full-time teacher.”

“Might have something to do with your lack of qualifications,” Nat points out. She pulls a roll of medical tape out of her bag, starts wrapping her knuckles.

“I graduated college _before_ going to Shield,” Tony mutters. “Who’s more qualified than me?”

Clint opens his mouth to say something, but Trish holds up a hand. “Sorry,” she says, and you don’t need to know her as well as I do to know she’s not sorry at all. “This is cool and all, but what are we actually doing here?”

Nat smiles. It’s unreadable as ever, but somehow welcoming enough that when she waves Trish over, Trish approaches. Nat holds out the tape, and nods to Trish’s hands. “We’re training,” she says simply, staring to tape Trish’s hands with the same expertise she wrapped her own. “Jessica said you might enjoy learning to fight.”

Trish doesn’t say anything, but I can feel the glee coming off her. She glances back at me, pure joy in her eyes, like I’ve given her something. I haven’t. I just opened the door. Nat and Clint – and this Stark guy, I guess – are going to be the ones who will give her the real gift.

“Yeah,” she breaths, turning back to Nat. “I would. Definitely.” She nods fiercely, flexing her hands when Nat finishes the taping. Her eyes meet Nat’s, and even from the center of the room, I can feel the shift happening. “Teach me everything,” Trish begs Nat. “Please,” she adds after a second, smiling at her. 

It’s an actual smile, too. But I’m not jealous that she’s giving them to someone else. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tony’s job, as it turns out, is to make little moving robot targets for Clint to shoot at. Clint’s job is to kill the robots, and then Tony fixes them as fast as he can, and the process starts again.

I’m sipping Sunny-D (another peace offering from Clint – apparently he ‘had a feeling you and Stark wouldn’t get along great at first, he totally gets better’), and watching both them and the girls.

Nat’s got Trish in front of a punching bag. She’s patient, teaching her how to curl her hand into a proper fist, how to put the most force behind every hit. It doesn’t take long for Trish to improve, to go from wincing every time her knuckles hit the bag, to actually making it move when she strikes. Nat nods, offering praise and criticism in equal parts, and Trish smiles at both.  
I’d be jealous, except Trish looks so goddamn happy. I can tell, she’s picturing her mother’s face on that bag, every time. And I’m glad, because I’m not always there to fight her battles, not since Ms. Walker stopped making me tag along to every movie premiere and public appearance. I turned out to be more of a _liability_ than an asset in the end, to no one’s surprise.

“She’s good,” Tony’s voice pipes up behind me. I jump a little, sending juice droplets flying. He scoffs and hops onto the box next to me. 

“Of course she goddamn is,” I mutter, glaring at him. “Don’t you have robots to fix?”

Tony jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and I look back. Clint’s chasing about twenty little robots, various shapes and sizes. Some are the size of small dogs, big and block, and some are as small as spiders, and just as mobile. They’re quick too, Clint has to use at least three to track one of the tiny spiders as it crawls up the wall. 

“It’ll keep him busy for a while,” he says, leaning over and plucking the Sunny-D out of my hand. “Have a _real_ drink, Jones,” he says, pressing a flask into my hands instead. He’s sipping on another beer. “After all, you’re the only one not training.”

I’m a little pissed about the Sunny-D, but the weight of the flask feels strangely right in my hands. I sigh irritably, but open it up and toss it back. Whatever’s inside burns on the way down – but I don’t exactly hate it.

“Nice,” he says, as I cough a little. “Not bad for your first drink.”

“It’s not my first,” I mutter, wiping at my lips. He grins at me, a little lopsided and a lot cocky. “I’ve had liquor before. Some of us go to public school.”

“It’s your first _good_ liquor,” Tony clarifies. “That’s blue-label whiskey in there. Courtesy of Howard Stark’s extensive collection.”

“Your dad collects liquor?” I ask, giving him a look.

He shrugs. “Among other things. Trust me,” he says, his eyes trained on Nat and Trish. “It’s one of his more normal habits.”

“If you say so,” I reply, shaking my head. I tilt the flask back again, enjoying the burn this time, as it spreads through my gut and chest. “I don’t, though,” I add, glancing back up at him. “Trust you.”

“Smart move,” he says, winking at me. “Trusting me is a bad move. Or so my exes keep saying.”

I roll my eyes. “Clint wasn’t kidding you know,” I say, taking another sip from the flask. “I will actually skin you if you touch my sister.”

Tony holds his hands up. “Message received. I don’t want to be skinned. I _like_ my skin. Attached, preferably,” he says, smirking at me. 

Maybe it’s this whiskey, but I smirk back at him. “Your dad won’t notice this is gone?” I ask, taking another sip.

Tony shakes his head. “He’s more of a 'bigger picture' kind of guy,” he says, waving a hand through the air. “He’s not great with details, really.” 

Behind us, Clint lets out a triumphant whoop. “Two more, Stark!” he shouts. Tony checks his wristwatch, then nods, impressed. 

“Gonna beat your record,” he calls back, before turning to me. 

I tip the flask back one more time, and hold it out to him. “You’re gonna need to wind up more toys for him,” I point out. I’m starting to feel sort of buzzy, my fingertips tingle. But it’s nice. My head is heavy, but not for the usual reasons. This is better. 

“Keep it,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ve got more at home.” He slides off the box, and looks up at me. 

“What?” I ask. I take another drink, because it seems like the only thing to do when he’s staring at me like that. Like I’m a robot he’s trying to take apart. 

Clint lets out another whoop, but Tony doesn’t even blink. “Why aren’t you training, Jones?” he asks, tapping his fingers against his chin. He’s smearing grease onto his face, but I don’t think he cares. 

I tense, my hand tightening around the flask. ( _Not too goddamn tight,_ I berate myself.) “Don’t have anything to train,” I mutter. Tony raises a brow. “I’m not like the rest of you. I’m just – normal,” I finish. 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he says, as Clint lets out a final triumphant yell. He strides away, casting looks at me over his shoulder.

I go back to watching Trish and Nat. It’s easier to focus on them, than to wonder what the hell he meant by that. There’s a purity in the sound of Trish’s fists slamming against the punching bag. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“That was amazing.”

“I know.”

“Seriously. It’s like – the best place ever.”

“I _know_.”

“Nat’s super hot.”

“Jesus Christ, Trish. _I. Know._ ”

Trish rubs one eye while she glares at me. But she’s too exhausted to hold onto anger for long. “What’s got you pissy?” she asks, flopping down onto her bed.

I’m standing at her door, Tony’s flask shoved in my bag, my fingers drumming against the doorframe. “Nothing,” I mutter. “Stark’s an asshole. And you’re saying the same damn thing you’ve been saying the entire walk back.”

“I can’t _help_ it,” Trish insists, stretching out and wriggling under her covers. “It was just so– ”

“Amazing,” I finish for her, sighing lightly. “Yeah, I know.”

Trish props her head up on one elbow. “Stay with me tonight,” she says. She’s good, I almost fall for the casual tone of her voice. But I can hear that little thread of pleading. Of worry. “Come on, Jess. It’s been forever.”

She knows I can’t say no to her. I don’t even bother answering, just shuck off my flannel and jeans, dropping my clothes and my bag beside the bed. I slip on a pair of her pajama pants before I crawl in next to her. 

“We have to set an alarm,” I whisper. We’re so close now, eye to eye as we share a single pillow, it’d be stupid to talk any louder. 

Trish nods. “So we wake up before the witch.”

“You mean _bitch_ ,” I say, and Trish smiles a little. She closes her eyes, and I can see her hand curl into a little fist on the blanket. Just like Nat showed her. Her knuckles are red and a little swollen, despite the tape, and I frown. 

I roll over, reaching for my bag. I pull out Stark’s flask, which is still cold from the night air outside, and press it against her knuckles. 

Trish doesn’t even open her eyes. “That feels nice,” she murmurs sleepily. She wriggles a little closer to me, her body so warm compared to mine. I don’t want to steal all her warmth, but I can’t help but move closer, too. “Always looking out for me,” she breathes.

I nod, even though she can’t see me. We’re both quiet for a few minutes, and just when I think she’s fallen asleep and I can close my own eyes, she whispers again.

“Thanks Jess,” she says, her voice barely the shadow of a sound. “That was…”

But she trails off before she can finish the sentence. “I know,” I murmur, slowly lifting the flask from her knuckles. I sit up a little, take one last swig, and put my head back down.


End file.
